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Darlings, I know it has been ages since I shared shit in this space. Here’s the deal: I believe my home desktop has some kind of tracker bug on it. Recently I was perusing some naturalistic, how do you say — arty photos, when said “arty photos” launched a bunch of pop ups and then I scrambled to close down the window that stated something like “MAC detects blah, blah…virus…blah, woof, woof…etc…”

So I don’t know what the hell I downloaded but whatever it was closed down all my social media sites. When I relaunched, everything required my password again. Oh, hells no, sugar. I may be blonde this summer but I’m not dumb enough to manage online banking at home now.

I do nothing on my home computer except surf porn. Which, in the larger picture, placed me in this scenario. I’ve reached out to a tech geek/smartie pants and we’re to schedule a time for him to comb through my network, etc., to clean up my mistake.

I’m writing this from my workplace. And that’s not kosher. So hang in there. I’ll be back soon with tales from the front lines of desperate social climbing and one man’s search for a boyfriend with equity and a big wiener.

Film legend, Hollywood royalty…JOAN CRAWFORD, passed away on this date in 1977. Meh. Though I do understand the rigors of maintaining an image. I’m no star in this town; I’m a D list socialite. I can own that. Still, even to fetch a six-pack of Stella I’ll glide a bronzer brush across both cheeks. While I’m not prone to open casket notions, I do worry if I should leave a color palette regarding my face for the funeral home face fixer upper. As one does.

So that magazine I appeared in had the issue release party a week ago. Nice turn out but it rained ass end out of a bull. Which I have no idea what that sentiment implies but I heard it as a kid growing up so there’s that. I, naturally, owned the fucking room in a completely coordinated ensemble that will be relegated to my growing ‘worn once/never to be seen again’ closet. It was seriously big fun; there was a 1-minute window wherein the mag’s editor called us all on stage, announced our names, and presented us as the “2016 dudes with flair” recipients. That’s not what the feature title is but you know how I sweat Google search for my FOR REALS NAME. Ahem.

Standing there; feeling cock of the block. And with so many camera flashes signaling captured moments. It felt wonderful. Truly wonderful. I thought to myself: “this is what Beyonce gets every time she steps out her front door…” and I now hate her for that.

The feature’s 30-something photographer was there. Naturally we struck up a convo; he really captured a beautiful image of fabulous moi. We agreed to meet up and review the rest of shots from the photo shoot. Which we did last Wednesday. And now I am in love. No. Not love. Maybe lust? He’s so friendly, handsome, and charming. His knee braced against my leg as we sat side-by-side previewing shots. There was an ease to our conversation. And, per usual, post-second glass of chardonnay, I talked too much about personal things. But he shared, too. So it felt okay. The right thing; in the moment –that bit of flickering tea light intimacy between two men sharing real tales of the heart in the big city.

“My girlfriend has been a bit of a….”

But I couldn’t tell you what the hell followed because I was bitch slapped back to reality. “GIRLFRIEND”? I thought the dude was gay. So now what? He seems to dig me though. And I’ve had a week to chew on all the nuances of body language, eye contact, and his warm, bear hug embrace on the sidewalk in front of the sick-as-fuck hipster hotel we met at. We’ve since exchanged a few emails. He’s sent me some YOUTUBE music links. We were talking about music and, well, since I’m old as fuck there’s a lot I don’t know anymore. So he sent some tunes. That’s just being friendly, right? I mean, I can totes go all “..I made a mix tape and put it in the mail/did you get it yet…” circa late 80’s teen crush. But I think not. I think I will keep thoughts of our big gay wedding on the back burner. Shamelessly I’ve already doodled our initials; the cursive font ascenders will create stylish flair on our ecru cocktail napkins. The Knot will def want to photograph our simple gay wedding with the imaginative personal flair that captures our personal style points so beautifully. Ahem.

There was moment, actually, two moments the other night where I caught the shadowed rise of his cheek bone and marveled at the silkiness of his complexion. I wanted to grab his face in my two warm hands and smell that space above his ear, followed by a quick dive to a full-on, lip lock kiss. I’ve already wanked to his imagined spent body slut-twisted in my 600 thread count sheets; I would nuzzle that damp space, and tongue the faint strawberry blonde hairs, between his butt hole and cock for round two. Sigh. I need therapy.

It’s all really conjecture at this point. I mean, really — do I think for one minute a man half my age is remotely interested in my moobs and gray hair? I won’t allow myself to give the notion too much serious thought beyond my desire to call Make A Wish Foundation and fake cancer for his undivided attentions. I know one thing: I’m skipping any talk about ‘back in my day’ and ‘when I was your age’ when we meet again. I learned that lesson the hard way last spring with that other 30-something that vanished like summer fog. Dating a man half my age? There’s an attraction; I feel it. Once in awhile the moth becomes the flame. And that feels very Joan Crawford.

I dunno. It’s the chilliest May I can recall and we’re only into day four of the new month.

I’ll circle back on this site soon. I’ve got a lot of shit I want to belch out in this space. I still struggle with self-doubt; all the change in my workplace has me reeling. I’m just not all that great with managing change. And yet I go back to that miserably hot day in July, 2007 — the day the moving van pulled from the curb of an address I called home for 25-years. I’m still managing THAT change, too. Shit. Life is hard, dude. When do I get a second chance at drag-my-ass-across-the-carpet ass slammin’ sex again?

The magazine article is out. The hard copy dropped Friday in the city and the digital version dropped a few days prior. I was out-of-town on business when my phone blew up with a few congratulatory-type text messages from coworkers who have anxiously been refreshing the magazine’s website for days to see the feature on fabulous moi.

And it does feel fabulous. I mean, again–I did not donate a billion dollars to the pediatric wing of a local hospital. I simply know how to dress for the occasion if I did so. Though if you saw my bedroom post-travel the past two weeks it looks like a bomb went off with dirty laundry basket overflowing and dry cleaning hanging off every available door knob. Not too stylish in that area. Ahem.

So, yes. Posted the article on all my social media and the positive feedback and love feels really awesome. Because while everything reads all shiny and bright on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, I could barely get out of bed Saturday.

I did manage to get to the gym as any type of exercise clears out depression cobwebs. So that worked for a bit. But I quickly fell into ‘what’s the point’ mode upon returning home. I pitched the gym threads, wanked it like a bitch in heat, and fell into a deep afternoon nap till 4pm. The whole effn’ day shot and I didn’t care one iota.

Sunday’s warmer temps and bright sunshine elevated my mood enough to get dressed, post-gym, and stroll downtown. I was scraping hangers across the cheap(er) suits section at MACY’s when that familiar text bing interrupted my ear bud music flow.

And there, in the cheap(er) suit section, I read the text, smiled and moved on with my day. I only read it once. I didn’t need to read it again. Nor did I respond. OPRAH said that if one can’t take people talking shit one isn’t ready for success. I’m paraphrasing but that seed of truth bubbled into my reality Sunday afternoon. A former acquaintance felt moved enough by the magazine feature to text me his feelings about the demise of our close friendship. And while I know– and own, my role in that breakdown I chose not to reflect too deeply or read too much into the tiny words that had popped up on my phone. I didn’t care. Much. Folks who try to bring you down are usually beneath you. I’m Rick James, bitch. Suck it this month.

Hello. Maybe I’ll just post my cray cray shit here every holiday break. Today is Easter. My last post was Christmastime. I figure if Christ can get up and move a rock blocking his tomb I can perhaps bang something out on this keyboard.

I’ll just jump into it. My work– my job, that is, seems secure for the moment. And by that I mean the company acquisition has occurred; heads have already rolled and I’m still standing. I have no idea why other than my high visibility on the social scene and strong media connections are assets. Well. Wait. I don’t have THAT large of a profile in ‘the scene’ but I’m still very much what one would call an “up and comer.” Or fame whore. And my credentials on that standing are about to receive a major boost. A local society mag chose me as one of their “dudes who look good in clothes” recipients. The annual sartorial shout out is obviously titled something else but I’m still flying under the radar in this space and won’t mention specifics for fear of the almighty Google. Ahem ~

I learned this news in January; my mouth dropped and I believe my first response was “oh my GAWD…this is like winning a fashion OSCAR in this town..” I’ve since tempered and distilled my response to those in the know to a polite “it’s an honor to be included among the ranks of this town’s well-dressed men…”

And only a few folks DO know this pending photo feature; the issue drops next Friday. My photo shoot was weeks ago and they interviewed me regarding my style and related type fashion questions. I was frank and open: I shop high-end AND scour TJMaxx. Style is an attitude, not a fat wallet. I’m praying the fucking picture is good since I take 30 selfies to post a good one.

It’s a big deal for me. And yet when I get to feeling too smug about how very special the public recognition is I regroup my thoughts and realize I did not cure cancer or donate money to build the children’s wing of any major hospital. I simply know how to fashionably dress and own a room when I enter it. Friends tell me to hush such self-defeating thoughts and enjoy this big moment. True, yes — but I still have that waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop negative thought process in place. I can’t ever be happy for too long. I don’t know how to do happy.

Tomorrow I head back to the airport around 4:30am. They have me working from the out-of-state home office the past couple of weeks. That is starting to wear on my nerves as I’m not all that great of a flyer but it is what it is. I have to adjust, adapt, and embrace all this change now. The alternative is what? Quit my job? I’m in no shape financially to even think about early retirement. And what would I do with myself? How much daddy porn can a person watch?

So I’m off for fucking Christmas vacay this week. It’s a stay-cay as I can’t fucking afford to go anywhere. Like, I don’t know how I got myself into this debt cycle of late but then, yes, I do know. When I was out of work I tapped my retirement account for mega monies and –wouldn’t you know it, Uncle Sam wants his cut. Monthly the government takes a chunk for taxes on that early withdrawal. Plus I like nice clothes so there are those pesky SAKS and Neiman Marcus credit card bills that just never ever hit zero balance because oh-hey-gurl-hey-cute-shoes purchases abound.

I lunched with one of this town’s most influential, recognizable media mavens today. It was so fucking awesome to have a mini Kim K moment walking through the dining room while heads turned. And while I maintained a Cary Grant purposeful stride and fixed smile on my face I was really jumping up and down inside enjoying my private rainbow pony, glitter-apalooza moment in her warm spotlight. “Yasss, betches….look who I’m lunching with!!!” But there is no hash tag for that. So, yeah.

Work is status quo. While I’ve had about a week to digest the news of my company being sold, the initial nuclear bomb OMG-we’re-all-gonna’-die feeling of crisis mode has diminished solely on the fact that the hatchet squad left town several days ago. I met with them; the vague term bandied about was “in flux.” Corporate speak for “we’ll axe your job on our own time-table.” I left my ‘go fuck yourself’ attitude at the curb that morning and listened to two, snarky thirty-somethings in cheap suits work their running commentary like it was a vaudeville act. All they needed, really — to complete their show was a tired-ass donkey and a drum set made from the stretched skins of all those axed before me. Clearly they are adept at sawing people in half and magically disappearing.

So I don’t know. I’ve told another media friend of mine in publishing. She’s a polished gem of a friend. Within an hour I received a text: “I got your back.” I don’t know what that means exactly but it does allow me to enjoy a bit of my stay-cation minus thoughts of leaping from my 20th floor window with a sprig of mistletoe clenched in my asshole.

I have zero expectations for Christmas day. The exBF already declared this year a non-exchange year. And while exchanging Christmas presents with an ex is fraught with trips down holiday lanes past, I must confess I’m going to miss not opening a bottle of come-fuck-me cologne on my wish list Christmas morn. Earlier today, I passed a faux homeless person with his Sharpie inked cardboard sign: “Lost everything. Need food.” Yes, and I need a bottle of TOM FORD’s Sahara Noir so, with all due respect — we’re both fucked this Christmas, bitch.

I figure minus any expectations of surprise and delight I’ll get through the day and mother’s seasonal lament of ‘everybody I know is dead’ long enough to find some glimmer of hope for the new year.

I asked my lunch pal today what — if money was no object, she would want for Christmas. She chimed in with “a villa in the South of France” while I aimlessly stirred my cappuccino and examined my monogrammed cufflink for scuffs. My Christmas wish was far more obtainable, though not shared table side: a finger bang from young, tall, dark and handsome Eduardo, our waiter would — indeed, be a fucking Christmas miracle.

Yesterday was ‘march or die’ day with regard to Christmas shopping. My out of state family gifts abso-fuckin’-lutely must ship today or I’ll pay premium rates next week. And I’ve been there. Why, hells bells –I’ve been known to spend $70 bucks to ship a $40 dollar gift. Yeah, so I’m an idiot.

My plan was to start early; I wanted to hit the stores at 9am when they opened but that didn’t happen because I’m a 15-yr old when it comes to internet porn. Where was I? Oh. So it occurred to me that I’d not written one Christmas card. Too, the cards I’d received were still casually tossed on the breakfast bar, unopened. It’s that depression thing. Like, I can’t spare the energy to slit an envelope and read greetings of the season. But I finally did open them after a pot of imported Brazilian coffee I received as a secret Santa gift in the workplace. (more on THAT topic to follow)

I wrote about 15 Christmas cards yesterday. As I mature my handwriting has gotten progressively wobblier and wigglier. I pride myself on beautiful cursive handwriting and nowadays my efforts look like assisted living/crystal meth addiction penmanship. Meh. No one cares. So when I wrote ‘I count you twice in counting Christmas blessings’ it actually appeared like:

“I cunt you twice in cunting Christmas blessings.”

I thought about drawing an arrow to the words and writing something like:

“Ha! Ha! It looks like I wrote CUNT!”

…but then that would only draw more attention to my sloppy scribe and, too, maybe I’m THINKING I see the word “cunt” and hey, what the Hell is wrong with me why do I read ‘cunt’ instead of ‘count’?!?! Sigh.

But I digress. I finally tossed the completed cards on the foyer console. (sure, I could have said “hall table” but this is a classy blog, bitch.) After showering I grabbed dark denim, better shoes, and vintage OLIVER PEOPLES sunglasses. It was an effortless, daddy-got-money look that read ‘don’t mess with me’ for astute retail clerks to understand in a jiffy minute. It also garnered a free sample of Jo Malone sugar scrub from the twink at their counter, too.

I powered through at least seven stores yesterday and got 90% of my shopping done. Today I’ll wrap the shit and haul ass to the UPS Store. The pain in my shoulder blades always vanishes once those boxes slide to the other side of their counter. It’s a notable stress level shift and a signal that I can enjoy my Christmas break.